Tourniquet
by Peridot Tears
Summary: Germany has already lost his brother in this swirling pit of hell -- he has already lost a limb, and he is not ready to lose another, soldier that he is. He is not going to let Italy die, even if it means giving up his friend's arm.


**Tourniquet**

_Disclaimer: ...Ni._

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_Hell._

_Fire._

_Death._

_Blood._

Ludwig is all too familiar with all four. He never tires of it, because the cold and hot of it all has become numb to him—too numb, too often; though he truly abhors it, he bears it, because he needs to stay strong and tall, and through the fire he plunges. He sheds no tear for those who have died around him, young and old; those he may call friend, have called comrade.

Instead, he feels helpless—that instant plunge into deep emptiness, a lump forming in his stomach—like his heart truly is frozen, and has fallen. And he would remember a distant, dreamlike, memory of Gilbert gruffly stating that he, the great Prussian empire, has no heart. Ludwig would remember his own quiet exasperation.

Sometimes he thinks he has a heart.

Sometimes he thinks it's frozen.

But that is only because he is a soldier, after all. Like any true German man, he is upright and dignified. Strict and stern, law-abiding. Like any true German man, he is blue-eyed, blond and Ary—

_Nazi._

Because, in the midst of nationalism and war, in the tide of love and hate—for one cannot exist without the other—in the hourglass in which the world has gone mad—he is one with it all, and he is the enemy; and he is the one murdering people he once called his. If ever.

It is sickeningly like a petulant child, knowing nothing better than to throw a tantrum.

And because of a suffering people, humanity being humanity, an overzealous morsel of hope, and a man who leads them all. Ludwig is the man, not the slice of hopeful cake garnished with a mustache and roughly-seducing words. Ludwig is the man who throws the tantrum, who commences the God-forsaken qualms of life. He is Germany, and he is a Nazi; not his brother, whose only crime is to be of German blood; not Italy, who has suffered enough—but him, because he is guiltless and knows only of the man behind the gun.

Onward he marches, because he is _truly_ guilty, because he is a soldier. German, Aryan, Nazi, or none of these, he is a soldier; he follows this willingly.

He never wonders if he is happy, because it is not his duty to be happy.

Italy—Veneziano, that warm and big-hearted man, so much like a boy, has never asked—as if he can bring Ludwig happiness himself, no questions required.

Hell—fire—death—blood.

They are war, and they are him.

So why—why, why, why?—is he staring around, like a hapless fish out of water?—why is he looking around in a frantic whirl, his mouth open and his brows drawn tight? Why is he still clean, on his knees, while his men dirty themselves around him, awash in blood from tightly-knitted flesh; flesh that was never meant to be broken, never meant to be ripped, but worn? _Why?_

_Why is he dwindling?_

_Why is he breaking?_

His body aches, and his skull is split—it must be, because in a moment he hears the cry of his brother falling in battle—Prussia, Gilbert; his brother, the one who offered tiny smirks before and many times over, who was always, somehow, there; who fell into this battle as he has done for countless years, who supplies the tiniest bit of reluctant love under the ice. The one Ludwig dragged into this madness, the one who is—_was—_bravely battling for his sake mere moments prior.

And what does Ludwig do?—he sits there, pathetic, in the mud, watching the land crumble around him. Watching his brother become his whipping boy, watching his people suffer, watching the land fall for his sins.

It is only because it is right before him, a scream emitting from his brother—his strong, mighty brother—as the metal grinds his bones and rips his flesh—it is only because of this, does he awaken.

He thinks a moment, of the surrendering Italy; the traitor, the friend who was always a coward.

What would Italy do, if he was here?

_How far have you fallen, Deutschland?_

With an inhuman snarl, a trumpet of rebirth, Ludwig leaps, like a snake or a lion, or a soaring eagle with its claws unsheathed. He has his rifle, he has his soul, he has his brother slumped on the ground; he has smoke and flashes and hellfire around him, and he has the will to dirty himself further, if only to _reach_ further.

Through the cries of battle, he almost looks like a messiah, though Ludwig himself does not know, and he does not care to know.

Because this is Germany, and this is a Nazi plowing past hell so his brother does not suffer in vain.

Madness!

He fires, he slams the butt of his rifle into the flesh of charging men; he slices through the tender skin and flesh of the enemy; he has gone mad, a dog with rabies; and he is even foaming at the mouth because the world spins on its axis. He kills and kills, and he does not look back to see whose family he is slicing, whose life he has ripped away.

The world is a whirl, and all he cries is "Deutschland! Deutschland!"—his own name.

He is flying through hell, the flames crackling around him, snapping at his body; he parries, and soon only the ones who dare are his enemy, for he slaughters madness of the world, or so he thinks.

Soon, he reaches his brother.

The gun hits the ground.

Prussia, Gilbert...his brother is sprawled on the ground, looking dead, with only slits for eyes. Ludwig is sure he sees a tall, foreboding figure over the frighteningly helpless heap upon the ground, but he has eyes only for his brother, the one whose hair and skin is a sickly crust of deathly fluid.

But one eye is cracked larger than the other, and something like hope tingles in Ludwig's brightness-tired heart.

The shadow over both of them is unmoving, and soon the German, bloody and filthy, has propped up his older brother with his arms and legs, feeling a dim memory stirred behind his brain. The rifle slams against the mud.

"You've lost."

"Nein," Ludwig says immediately. Prussia looks up at him, his face cracked and brown. His eyes showing the faintness of his abrupt strength. Both of their voices are rasping in their throats.

"You've lost West...sorry to break it to you...but—"

"Nein!"

"West"—a cough...Gilbert seems to awfully like a _thing_ nestled in his limbs—"you've lost. Don't deny it." There is a glimmer of apology in the crimson spots that are becoming bigger and bigger.

Before Ludwig can growl protest once more, Gilbert says, almost cocky like himself before his doom, "But go down fighting, West. Give those dummkopfs a challenge, so triumph will taste like coffee in their mouths. Gott, I hate coffee."

He spits and settles down. "Go."

"Bruder," Ludwig says finally, tears needling at his eyes.

"Go. Kick their asses for me." A lone eye, red and sparkling, looks away, up at the shadow over them. There is a spark of defiance. Ludwig starts to follow the eye's trail—

"_Go." _With visible effort, Gilbert flops out of his brother's arms, throwing himself at the ground.

"_Bruder!"_

"_GO!"_ A feeble kick is aimed at him, and though doing so is like losing a limb, Ludwig runs. A soldier who obeys the word of the wiser, he runs. He gets up with his weapon at his side, turns, and flies back into hell. The hounds are waiting.

He can hear a sound that almost makes him stop—_kolkolkol—_but he rushes ahead, his rifle in hand. The round tears slip to his eyes and trickle down his face, washing the cleanest streak on his face through the grime and dust. He jumps in, Prussia's lone eye, cracked and gem-like, entering his mind once more; it gives him the vigor that weaves into his blood and bones and flesh.

He is back to where he was hardly moments before—whirling, swirling all who come near into tattered ribbons no woman would ever wear.

He slams and kills, again and again, the red fresh in his mind as the tides of blood reach for the sky. Hell again; dust and smoke and fire.

If the scene is painted red, he doubts it—it's The Lion Hunt and The Stone Breakers all at once—it's dust, uncolored; fire, flash; screams, painted; filth, simply filth. This is hell, and Ludwig will never forget the dangerous thrill, the will to kill if only to live, the dash of beyond. There is nothing _but_ hell—filth and grime and death and screams. Ludwig has learned, long ago, how to dance with the unseen Satan. Only now he is doing it because he remembers his brother. Will he ever see him again?

The thought is unbidden, and try as he might, it moves not from his brain. Rather, it drives him on. Because if he goes down with a fight, perhaps he will be able to see Gilbert again. Perhaps—and with this warped sense of logic, he fights on. Soon he is a mere beast. He sees hell and devils.

And he sees white.

In the distance, a snowy flag, spotless and looking infuriating over the filth-washed battlements below. Looking so pure, so outstanding over the field of hate—almost like a dove, an angel, calling for a stop to all of this—all of this...

The hand.

Ludwig sees the hand; he almost stops—in rage or relief or sheer shock, he does not know, and will never know—he sees the hand wrapped around the pole, with the ragged ends tied to it—suddenly, it's a fallen angel, not a savior, but an angel fallen from grace.

If the world was surreal before, it's suddenly ethereal.

There is a thin wail rising from the angel fallen to Siren, the sobs flying from his mouth—suddenly it has become a banshee—and it speaks words, gibberish that suddenly sounds so familiar, like from the mouth of a hooker who has fallen in love with a client—"I'll do anything you want! Just—please don't hurt him!"

_Him._

"Please!" Italy cries, and he dares to step down, into the bowels of chaos. He waves the flag with feeble strength; but waves it he does, letting it fly in a nonexistent breeze; Ludwig does not know whether he is crying or not, but Veneziano does, and the tears whip about. "Please don't hurt him! I'll do anything you want! Please! Please! We—" he chokes "—we surrender!" With every word, there is a wave of the white banner, one or two.

Italy!

Ludwig almost drops the gun, but he feels his boots move—should he be furious?—should he be grateful?—should he be worried?

Should he do this?—should he do that?

He runs.

He does not at first—he first screams at the stupid, _stupid _Italian to _move!, _to _run!,_ to _get away!_

_What right have you to interfere with a German struggle when you gave up, coward?_

For all those innocent smiles, those affectionate gestures like from Japan's geisha or simply a blooming wife—all those warm smiles, and loving moments...Italy betrayed him. _Veneziano_ betrayed him. Betrayed him after talk of friendship, persistence in bonds. _Friends, _a word suddenly to be spat out and trampled.

But hell does not cease, does not stop—the world is in constant tilt—and there is a blast—Ludwig sees the brightness of it, a flash of white flame—!

Italy has fallen, and now Ludwig runs—Germany runs, toward a friend, a fallen soldier, if not a coward; better a coward in redemption rather than a coward staying a coward. He sees the limp figure, so frighteningly still like his brother; the flag—still so pristine—resting in the hand crumpled upon the ground.

Then he is there, just as he was there for Prussia, rifle on the ground, screaming his name—"Italy!" He repeats it, over, over; he scoops his friend off the ground, tries to avert his eyes from the wound that has torn away the sleeve, defiling the priorily-pristine right side of the uniform. The arm that pokes out looks so flimsy, so feeble—it's bare and bloody, and yet the patches of skin not glistening in blood—blood,_ blood—_are so pale; the arm looks slim, thin and useless. A worm, a twig in fleshy webs. Ludwig looks away, if only to focus on the true wound and the life he holds, among the cold stone ground and the shattered wood lying dead around them.

For a moment, in the midst of the battle, in the eye of the storm, Ludwig holds the Italian who has come, come to his side to surrender. In the eye, he grits his teeth, wanting nothing less than for this all to be a dream, a fantasy, a drunken illusion; reality calls him, taunts and growls; so he closes his eyes, slamming them shut, if only for a moment. It carries him away—away from the taint of blood foul in the air, away from the booms and shrieks grazing his ears, away from the blinding sight of his best friend neither dead nor alive. He knows not whether to be furious, to be scared—but he is both, and there is only gray. He was supposed to go down fighting. He wants to howl like the beast he is, but he does not. He wants to cry over the sun slowly dying, but he does not.

He opens his eyes, though the bile rises like the moon—invisible, there the whole time, until it appears when it is done rising, only journeying.

Draped over Italy, he feels like a shroud.

Quivering—he is _quivering—_he pulls away, to look at the white face of the traitor and friend; the warmth rises to his eyes. _Concentrate._

He looks at the shoulder, where the gash is—the burn, the long tear in the meat. The shuddering blood pours, shiny, never congealing; how to stem a river such as this...?

Swallowing back the vile acid in his throat, he begins to work.

Adrenaline pumps.

_Please._

The first effort does not work—Ludwig has torn off strips from the forsaken flag, which is too big for a hand dead as Veneziano's. It is lumpy and crude, shapeless lining around the morsel of meat. He adds another, binds it without omitting snippets of clumsiness that plague him—and still, the red cries. He does what he can, raising the arm, hoping—_hoping—_

Red, crimson.

With a soft cry of despair, Ludwig does what only comes to him so naturally—

_You will be without a limb._

And yet, he quickly—oh so quickly—presses the ragged chest just to check for the telltale drum. The wintry rivers are his blood; he hopes, he hopes, he hopes.

Prussia's scoff resounds in the air, above all, as the wavering movement of the chest cuts into Ludwig's heart; an emptiness arrives._ There is no choice._

_He can feel him fading._

Germany moves, pulling a strip around the arm, pulls a sufficient bit of narrow wood from the ground. All the while, he knows.

Would he rather have a dead friend?—or a crippled one?

Would he again feel the arms around him, both like wings, warm and loving and fluttering?

Swallow.

Steel.

"Veneziano."

Slowly, he binds the material, tightly, and raises the loose arm upwards.

_Forgive me..._

He watches the death of a limb, but the life of the friend. There he kneels, as the world grinds to a draw.

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_**PT: Tourniquet. I've actually learned it only a week or two ago—you see, I'm part of a military program, and this one team out of a few that one can join only when they're a member of said program specializes in extreme athletics for the sake of cross-country rescue. And no, I'm not part of it, I'm on armed drill "D But yeah; the only sophomore in my platoon is part of it, and presented a project based off of stemming bleeding, basic first aid. And it scares me when I find that general French society has no knowledge of it –shot- Supposedly, this is the Battle of Berlin; was, anyway—I changed my mind, it's not so specific; and damn, I love the rifle used in the picture this is based on: http : / / virus-ac74 . deviantart . com / art / APH – Soldier – Side - 146508516**_

_**Yeah. And...por quoi?! I've written a lot?! :D**_


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